Small things
- cherylmurfin
- Sep 14
- 7 min read
Updated: Sep 16
It was a sixish mile trek from Takahara to Chikatsuyu, a village of about 450 people just east of the Gyubadoji statue of Kazan, the 64th emperor of Japan (b. 984 AD). A steep and rocky, and yes lush and mesmerizing climb, which by my gadget was more like 9 miles. I have never hears so many birds at one time outside of an aviary in a zoo.
We carried the words "small things" with us as we climbed.
I stopped frequently on the path, bending down to turn over rocks, feeling the tree bark, and basking in the wonder of these small things - their touchable, smellable details, their tiny part in the larger landscape. They asked me to reconsider the label "ordinary" I have attached to my day-to-day life back home, which includes daily walks in a park wherein the environment is not unlike this "foreign" path.
There are rocks and trees in my backyard, and it occurs to me that so much of what feels new or foreign to us is more a reflection of our curiosity than difference. I'm learning that wonder is an attitude with which you decide to look at the world around you, and I am trying to cultivate looking from that place.
I mentioned in my first post that I brought unfinished grieving for my mother to Japan along with my worry for my country and for the peace and stability of the world. The walk marked the first anniversary of her death, and those words "small things" brought to mind the myriad small things, the tiny details of her dying hours, and especially the hour I spent with her after her passing.
That I would wash my mother's body was a given. It's the Irish way, and my mother was very proud of her heritage.
I asked myself as I walked if there was ever a more genuine soul connection or love between bodies than this simple act. Not even the connection that I felt with my own children when they were inside my womb was as intimate as this final act for my mom.
I felt in this hour the continuation of the giving and receiving between daughters and mothers in our family. She delivered me, the chief witness to my arrival. My brother and I wrapped around my mother as she passed, the chief witnesses of her deliverance. She bathed me on that first day of my life; I bathed her on her last day.
If you will be uncomfortable with my experience doing this for my mother, perhaps scroll down to The Writings section.
I have seen thousands of naked women during my birth work and am forever marveling at the strength and beauty of their hard-working bodies. It is strange to me that this night was the first time I remember seeing my mother's body. I know she nursed me for a time, but who among us remembers nursing at our mother's breast?
I started with her hair, white as snow and soft to touch; my niece had braided in the French way. I caressed each line on her face, then wiped her eyes, pausing thinking of the twinkle in their green irises when she felt mischievous or when she told a bawdy joke, which she did frequently. I counted the freckles on her nose, the ones I wished I had when I was a child. I wondered at the nearly 80 years those eyes had seen, my mother's fuller human experience rather than the life I (and I think most children) shrunk in seeing her only as my mom. Suddenly, I wished for a video that showcased her most precious memories as well as the ordinary, small things that tickled her, one of my terrible poems or a silly Christmas ornament that rocked and sang country songs.
When I came to her arms, I felt her embrace—they always sought to hug and hold. I recalled my head in her lap, her fingers moving through my hair. She made that space for each of us. As I washed her hands, I saw my own, as well the scar when she'd burned her finger one Thanksgiving many years ago.
I paused at her tiny legs. My mother was only 4 feet 8 inches in heels. But how they had carried her.
They had also been the source of so much pain. My mother had multiple surgeries—her ankles, her feet, her knees, her belly, a railway of zigzagging lines. I ran my finger along those tracks. We are all wounded. We are all part of the great mass of hurts. Each of her scars became for me a reminder of her resilience and perseverance.
Finally, I came to her feet, toes meticulously painted hot pink. The contradiction was not lost on me: The cool blue of her cold feet in death, the explosive nail polish her sweet rebellion. My mother was hot pink. She was all color.
Her body cleaned and covered, the room feel into the greatest silence there is. I can still see my brother's hand in hers, the details of the room — a small speaker playing quietly, a Teddy bear, a photograph, a tiny lamp—the only light in the room—the shadow of her soul rising and taking flight.
Small things.
Not long after we began to clear out the things in my mom's house, I ran across a box filled with photos, many of which I've never seen before. They were undated, all of my mother. I put them in the rough order that I thought they belonged. And over the past year, I have pulled them out one at a time in search of the story they capture. I brought one to Japan and pulled it out midway through the walking on this day. Here is its story:
In this one
"In this photo, you are five years old. It is your birthday. The crown on your head is paper, and around the table, your siblings are eagerly gathered. There is a cake in front of you, and they all look to you as if unsure what you want to do with it.
Your mother sits nearby, a woman who has not yet, but will, sacrifice much for family, including perhaps seeing your hurt. In this picture, your eyes are watching your mother, and in them is the first spark of your bravery, of the fighter you will become, and the sword you will never, to my sadness, lay down. I see your tiny head tilting toward your mother as if you are letting her know you see her, that you see the strength in her that she will spend a lifetime believing she does not have.
I see you turn back to the cake, turn back to the clamor around the table. I see you look your mother in the eye on this, your fifth birthday, and plunge your fist into the middle of that cake."
I am grateful for the the walking, for space it opened, the reminders it offered, the details new and remembered. And I am grateful for the stories and words and connections proffered by those walking with me. Each piece of writing important, each one a voice in the woods.
Writing from the road
One small thing
By Ruth Purcell
You could say she woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning, but she wasn't
even on a bed. It was Leticia's couch, and she figured she had one, maybe two more
nights there before Tyrone kicked her out.
Leticia was her best friend but Tyrone was a brother from another planet. He was
jealous at the time Leticia spent with her. Shawnicia wasn't afraid to fight back. She
never was. She fought when there wasn't even a battle getting into with everyone who
passed her crooked path.
She looked at her watch. Her watch was gone. She stumbled into the kitchen to look at
the clock on the microwave. Almost 9:30. Shit. She was already late for her job
delivering balloons.
Her boss, Alexander Pipsqueak, was probably going to fire her. Her third job this month.
She grabbed her purse, put her shoes on and was out the door. She got to the office of
The Party People and was grateful that Mr P was occupied.
She grabbed the balloons from Sharon who whispered, “10:00 delivery. Shawnicia,
you'd better cruise.”
The address was a bougie suburb called Middleton Hills. She knew she could do it in 15
minutes which should put her there at 10:10. She'd smile blame the traffic crack a few
jokes.
She wanted to keep this job and she wanted her kids back. She wanted her life back.
Beltline Highway was all jammed up, no problem. She would take the frontage road.
The speed limit was 35, but she was an excellent driver, in spite of a number of citations.
She was at 50, 55, 60 when she heard the text coming in. “Goddamned Pipsqueak, I
know that's you,” she said.
She pushed it to 65 and looked at her phone for one microsecond. She looked up. That's when she saw the motorcycle.
Small things
Hand on shoulder
Sunlight and the angle of your face
Steam off the Coffee
Logs edge tiny blue mushrooms on a forest floor
Soft slip of a tatami mat
What is that bird?
This flutter in my heart
The sound that the bird makes before she opens her beak
The baby, as he sleeps
The ice cream vending machine in the middle of the woods
The smallest feather in this feather bed
The gap between teeth that is uniquely yours
A slight curl at the nape of the neck
This pebble I carry in my shoe on purpose
— Cheryl Murfin, Kumano Kodo, 2025
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